


Understanding

by azziria



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Caning, F/M, Kink, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:06:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azziria/pseuds/azziria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kono understands what Steve needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understanding

**Author's Note:**

> PWP, kink (caning). Written for the H5-0 porn-a-thon.

Steve’s got himself braced, hands on the desk, legs slightly apart and head down. She can’t see his face, but she doesn’t need to; she can tell how much he wants this by the tension in his body and the hardness of his cock.

It’s always her, only her, Danny and Chin don’t know, and she’s not really sure if it’s because she’s a woman, or because she’s _her_ and she _gets_ it, whatever this is, his own particular brand of crazy. She rests her hand on the base of his spine, thumb circling over inked skin. “You ready, brah?” she asks, and he nods, voice dark and full of need, “Yeah, just do it.”

The cane is thin and pliant, an almost too-elegant weapon for the raw brutality of the task. He keeps it locked away in his desk drawer, she knows that, and she wonders if he ever takes it out and looks at it between these... whatever these interactions between them are in his mind. She weighs the cane in her hand, steps back, takes aim and with a sharp snap of her wrist lays the first stroke cleanly across his ass. He jerks and hisses, and she wonders if she was too cruel for the first blow. “You OK, brah?” His voice is rough and wrecked, “Yeah, I’m good, give me more.”

He likes it hard enough to mark but not hard enough to break the skin, she’s learned that much. She aims lower with her second stroke, laying a thin red welt across the back of his thighs, hears him mutter a curse under his breath. Her third stroke is higher, cutting across the line where his tan stops and paler skin starts. She’d be lying if she said it doesn’t turn her on, having him here like this, so vulnerable when he’s normally so tough, under her control when he’s normally the one in charge, laid open like this under her attentions. But this isn’t about her, it’s about _him_ , about what he needs to get through the stuff he has to do, the stuff he has to see every day.

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t speak again as she carries on, placing her strokes carefully, working on laying a pattern of welts red and stark across the pale skin of his ass and the tanned muscles of his thighs, until she has him wordless and gasping. She counts her number, twenty strokes, no more, no less, the agreement between them, then tosses the cane onto the desk and presses up behind him. The rough material of her jeans must be sore against his reddened ass, but he pushes back, rubbing against her as though he needs more pain, and she reaches round and takes him in hand. In four strokes he’s there, shuddering under her as he comes, tension released as he slumps forward across the desk.

He doesn’t want to be touched now, needs to be left, so she slips away quietly and without a fuss, pulling the door to behind her as she goes, heading for her own private space where she can unbutton her jeans, slide her fingers down and get herself off. Tomorrow they’ll not mention this, they never mention it, but he’ll bring her coffee, leave it on her desk with a hint of a shy smile and a nod, and she’ll know.

She doesn’t need his thanks, doesn’t need his words, doesn’t need to talk about this. They’re creatures of a kind, her and him, she knows it, and she _understands_.


End file.
